If only
by CJcraziness
Summary: Mycroft stands in a graveyard and the rest is up to you. (Major character death)
1. The End - Mycroft

A lonely tear rolled down Mycroft's cheek, dripping onto the grass where his brothers now filled coffin lay six feet under, and he stared at the gravestones with watery ice blue eyes.

"What have you done, brother dearest?" He concealed his choke but was unable to completely hide it; Anthea stood behind him in his moment of weakness, gently putting her hand on his shoulder. After a few minutes of silence, he turned on his heel, slowly sauntering away. He glimpsed back just before he climbed into his car, now looking at the two gravestones. Sherlock Holmes painted onto the black slab and silver letters of John Hamish Watson decorating the other.

"If only you came back a little earlier, Sherlock. If only." He whispered as he opened the door, sitting inside as Anthea shut the door on the depressing world.


	2. Before the End - John

One week before...

_Why did he have to jump? If only he hadn't._

John sat on the edge of St Barts roof, eyeing the spot where his friend once lay all but two years ago. Had it only been two years? It felt like more. Though, it always feels like more. Two years since Sherlock stood up here saying his piece on how he was a fake, how all the murders and crimes he solved were of his own doing. It was not true. He was not a fake. He had been a misjudged but great man.

It may have been two years but the grief had not gone away... It only became worse. With every waking hour he remembered his flamboyant friend and flat mate; playing the violin or shouting at the television or the childish duels between himself and his brother. All the little things he missed from Sherlock no longer being around. He now lived alone. He now lived in silence.

221B was now just a dusty few rooms filled with empty and misguided memories that were once good yet now for every moment he sat in that flat... The pain intensified. A lonely chair, a shelf full of old unread books and chemistry equipment never to be used by the curly haired genius ever again. That was all that remained. Even the yellow smily face stared through the grime covered walls, smiling hatefully at the gloomy room.

Life had been fun with Sherlock Holmes, it had given him new purpose and meaning, the void of loneliness and depression that he had travelled back from Afghanistan with had melted away... Yet, once Sherlock had died it slowly crept back into this features. The distress and darkness in his eyes appeared once more, the nightmares caused by PTSD had returned, the limp was at its worst... Life became dismal and boring and fearful.

Ordinary.

He had lived like this for two years, but not anymore. It would end and it would end soon.

He stood up, watching the sun setting behind the London skyline as the fiery sky was plunged into boring blackness.

With a deep breathe he stepped away and walked off the roof. It would end but not today.


	3. Before the End - Sherlock

One Week Before...

He was coming home. Two years away from the flat and John and Mrs Hudson, now he was travelling back. Moriarty's network defeated. Moriarty himself gone. All was safe. All was done. He would come back and life would return to before these two dreadful years. Him and John against the world, or rather London solving a nice triple homicide or two.

Mycroft had even informed him of a job to do when he arrived home, to London. To 221B. Secret terrorist network but that could wait. John and home was priority. Mycroft had also given graver news, John was feeling suicidal and needed him to reappear in his life before he did something stupid. If only John could see he wasn't stupid. He hadn't expected the good Doctor to react so badly to his death. Then again, he had never had a friend who cared. A friend like John.

He allowed himself a rare smile as he boarded his plane, he was in need of some rest and care before he arrived back in London. He had been through his own traumas and struggles but he wouldn't admit it. Though that could all be forgotten when he arrived back in London and found cases and experiments to keep him busy.

To London. To 221B. To home...


	4. Too Lost and too Late - John

Five Days Earlier...

John stared at the pavement below, it looked cold and unforgiving. He would do this, just like Sherlock had. One step and you fall spiralling down into an abyss, crack! And then who knows, the light at the end of the tunnel? Or the forever darkness? Either way he would be gone from this prison of pain, anger and boredom.

He breathed deeply calming himself, the sun was setting with a similar glimmer of the reddish sunset a few days before. He had to admit it was a nice sight, as well as no one saw him in the enveloping shadow of the night. No one saw his demise.

He blinked slowly and looked straight ahead, mentally readying himself for the jump.

"Come on Watson. You can do this." He spoke aloud to the murky London air as no one else was there to hear him. He just needed to convince himself a little more, order himself off the building. He had never failed to carry out an order.

"Right. You will do this now!" He muttered again to the cold but clammy air.

"No, John. You will not." A familiar but unwelcome voice appeared behind him.

"Why is that then? This is my choice. Bugger off." He argued.

"This is not the answer, Dr Watson." The voice continued. "It's not what he would have wanted."

"You never got on with him. You don't know what he would have wanted." He replied angrily.

"Please, John. My brother wouldn't want this. You mean the world to..." Mycroft stopped abruptly.

John peered over the edge. He wanted to just take a step forward but something in the sentence hit him. "Mean? Not meant? A man with perfect grammar like you would not get that wrong." The older man stayed mute. The gears turned in John's mind. Mean. _Mean._ Mean!

Sherlock: the genius, his friend, annoying sociopath was alive. He didn't need to jump. He needed to get off this roof and find out where he was. Demand why he let him suffer. He shook his head as he looked over at the still, emotionless figure of Mycroft Holmes.

"All along I've been played the fool. The one out the loop. The idiot. Is what I am, Mycroft? An idiot!" Anger boiled and his strained voice rose. He heard footsteps draw nearer and John walked along the edge away from them. "Well? Why was I never told? I have suffered for two long years and you didn't even think to say anything. If only I was told, my pain would have stopped. You are a heartless cold bastard. A machine. You both are." He spat as everything seemed to fall apart. Today had one simple goal to achieve but that was out the window, or rather off the roof.

"John. Please calm down and step away. We can talk about this." Was that a slight emotion there? No. Cold and heartless, John thought as his vision saw red.

"How dare you? This is not okay. I was left to suffer and I will not calm down!" He screamed as he quickly turned to face Mycroft.

"How dare you!" He whispered as he tried to step away from the roofs edge. John saw through his red haze Mycroft's eyes widen as he ran forward to grab him but it was too late. His balance was lost and he was falling backwards away from the grasp.

"John. No!" Mycroft said as his fingers missed John by centimetres.

Gravity pulled him down and down as he saw the bright stars in the sky and wished upon them that he hadn't gone through the front door today. He shouldn't have... And then: Smack!

His body hit the ground in slow moment, the pain of bones breaking and crushing erupting all over. The red haze gone as he stared up at the languishing, lonely stars and the shocked face of Mycroft Holmes only two stories higher. Then everything drifted away, no light at the end of the tunnel, no godly voice, just darkness creeping in his vision and the pain disappearing as he did.

His last thought was that this was a mistake, it didn't mean to happen.


	5. Too Lost and too Late - Sherlock

Five Days Earlier...

As Sherlock exited his plane, he turned his mobile on to find a text from Mycroft, usually he would ignore this but a second later he found three more texts were received from the number and even one missed phone call. It was something important then. He smirked as he knew his brothers minions were useless and he could probably easily sort out the problem.

He opened the text and his face fell. All three texts said the same thing.

"Come to Barts hospital at once and you may want to be quick, brother dear. M"

His eyebrows funnelled as he climbed into a taxi and issued his destination. He fired a quick text off to his brother but only got a solemn text saying:

"You maybe too late. M"

When nearing the hospital he noticed police vehicles and the street was crowded, paying the driver he hopped out. Striding quickly to the scene where police tape was draped about a pool of blood but no body. He looked up, realising this was where he jumped and his stomach wrenched as conclusions formed in his mind.

"What happened here?" He demanded of a member of the crowd.

"He fell. Just fell." He said a little dumbstruck.

"Fell? Not jumped."

"No the police said some guy was persuading him not to jump and he nearly didn't but tripped instead and fell. If only he hadn't. Shame really but these things happen." He shrugged with a frown.

Before he could further his questioning, Anthea tapped on his shoulder and pulled him away towards the back entrance. He followed her in silence through the sickly white halls and overcrowded waiting rooms to a quiet part of the hospital. Sherlock recognised it well. She stopped at the door and finally spoke.

"You may go in whenever you like, Mr Holmes. Though I would prepare yourself beforehand." Then she swivelled around, walking off in the direction she came.

Sherlock didn't prepare himself for what was inside and instead rushed into the room.


	6. Blame - Sherlock

This was no ordinary corpse. What lay under the white sheet was a...

Friend. Or rather was a former friend. Now he was a cooling corpse and that made him sick to the stomach, the air felt foul, unbreathable.

The once joyful and maybe a little annoying John Watson was on the slab and it wasn't fair. He shouldn't have been. This was someone's fault. Not Johns fault, he was misguided. It was his...

His eyes raised slowly, protruding from under his eyebrows, the glare was sinister.

"It wasn't his fault." He said icily.

"He was misguided I'll admit but in the end it wasn't what he wanted. Though fate seemed to have another idea." The voice drifted through the thick tension.

"You don't believe in fate."

"Perhaps not. But something stopped him from being alive now."

"That something was you." Sherlock growled out.

"Me? If this is anyone's fault... We both know he's in this room. And it wasn't mine or Johns."

"You killed him. You should have watched over him for me, stopped him before got to the roof. You didn't. And so, you killed him."

Mycroft scoffed. "I did not brother dear. What would I gain from this? Nothing. I did like the good doctor."

"Enough," Sherlock near screamed. Mycroft's eyes widened just a little at his brothers outburst. "Out. Get out!" It didn't take long for Mycroft to exit and when he knew he was alone, Sherlock broke down. Falling to his knees in a cry of anguish. He screamed at the corpse. He blamed everything around him and swept any object onto the floor. Within a minute the morgue was a mess, though Johns body remained untouched under the white cloth. It took minutes for him to calm before he stood and addressed Johns corpse. Though he did not dare to lift the cloth.

"Why John? Why? You were clever and would never consider a way out. You survived war, tragedy and loss. Why give it away for the death of a friend?" The tears had stopped but they were filled with emotion and pain.

"I was never that important to you. A friend? That was it. You were to me though. I went to save you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I was nearly back. If only you could have waited a little longer."

There was a few minutes of silence.

"You were the best, strongest and most human, human being I had ever known. I missed you, John and I still do." He whispered before turning and storming out the room and out of the hospital.


	7. Blame - Mycroft

"If this is anyone's fault... We both know he's in this room. And it wasn't mine or Johns."

Had he really just said that to his own brother, who was clearly in shock and only found out about his friends death minutes before. Even though the death was clearly due to Sherlocks effect on the doctor did he have to rub it in his face. Mycroft sighed as he covered his eyes with his hand. This was a mess. A bloody horrible mess.

He had seen that John was deciding today. He had him monitored. But he wanted John to decide on his own accord that this wasn't the right course of action, he couldn't well lock him up and tell him to not commit suicide. Things didn't work that way. He couldn't really tell him Sherlock was back either just encase someone else caught wind.

Yet, he had followed John onto the roof to reason with him, he had to admit he normally got people to see his way. This was promising. It had worked to a point. John had backed away and no longer wanted to end his life.

Though even he, the great Mycroft Holmes, hadn't seen that he would fall unintentionally. It was devastating. When he had walked out on Sherlock, he had heard the cries of pain and smashing of everything in reach. Sherlock didn't deal with death well, he had learnt that long ago. He remembered the death of Redbeard, the effect the creatures death had on his brother... It was heart wrenching. Truly terrible.

He was worried for Sherlock when he saw him storm out the room. His eyes were ablaze and full of mixed emotions. He was not a sociopath as much as he wished to be. His emotions ran deeper than many he knew.

It actually felt like his own fault. Maybe he could have done something but there was no point wondering now.

He sighed, he needed to watch his brother. He was dangerous like this. He blinked slow as he stood, it was going to be a long night. A long night with an angry Sherlock who blamed him. He frowned as he was starting to also blame himself.


	8. Close - Sherlock

Sherlock knew that as he rushed away from the hospital in a bitter rage that every CCTV camera was turning to watch him and even a few people were following. Trust Mycroft to think he will either go to a drugs den or do something stupid. He lost the first two followers down a alleyway and the last one didn't see him when he mixed with a crowd coming out of the underground. Once he was sure they were no longer a problem he made his way to Baker Street however he went a long way avoiding every camera as he went. He didn't want Mycroft's prying eyes or questions later on. He snuck in quietly through the upstairs window. He didn't need Mrs Hudson finding out he was here.

As he breathed in the musky dust filled air he wanted to gag, the room was so very different, the room was not looked after at all. Using the moonlight that glinted through the window he observed footprints. Not his own, not Mrs Hudson's and they were fresh. He crouched making as little noise as possible and examined the footprint; it was Johns and it couldn't have been any more than two days old.

Sherlock's heart sank as he pictured the former soldier wondering around the gloom, he followed in his steps, calculating that he walked into the kitchen not staying long then went into the bedroom and strangely enough sat on Sherlock's bed. His room was full off dust, more so than the main rooms, he walked around his former bedroom still surprised that the faint smell of a old experiment remained in the room. Yet, the new scent of Johns aftershave also lingered from his visit.

He ran his fingers over the grime covered walls noticing it parted at one point. Frowning he used his phone to illuminate the spot and he grimaced at what he saw. Written in the dust was: "Why? Why did you, Sherlock?"

"Because I had to John. If only you had understood that." He whispered to the cold air as tears threatened to fill his eyes yet again for the second time that evening.

Exiting the room he continued to follow in John footsteps. They paused at the main window then he leant against the fireplace. He guessed he may have talked to Mrs Hudson at his moment as her small footprints were nearby. He looked on to see the footprints only went out the door. That was it. He sighed and made his way back to the window he had entered but saw something on the fireplace. A clean piece of paper folded a few times next to the knife marks of where the knife use to be.

Unfolding he found it was Johns writing but it was written a while ago as the paper was clean but old, the pen ink slightly fading. He read through. It was what John had said at his grave but a little more added on.

The last few sentences were written recently:

'I do not know why this happened Sherlock. But it did and I cannot move on. I am sorry but I must go. You were my friend and I owe you so much. I need to do this.

John Watson, my Note.

I don't think this will be found anytime soon but at least I also have a note. It's what people do, don't they?'


End file.
